Words are not enough
by Sandra S
Summary: Kind of a small tribute to any good mother out there. Oneshot, no real pairing.


Disclaimer: JAG belongs to DPB, Paramount, CBS et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.

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He entered his apartment and shut the door. Then he simply stood there for a moment, his eyes closed, one hand still on the handle.

Some times he had thought he would never make it through this day. But the inner discipline he had forced upon himself for years had kept him going, had kept him upright whenever he had thought he had reached the end of his strength. Even now - that he could give in to his weakness, his grief - it continued to hold him tightly in its iron grip. It was easier that way. It was the only one possible.

Slowly he shrugged the jacket of his black suit off his shoulders. Out of habit he folded it twice before he hung it neatly over the back of the next chair. Mechanically he unbuttoned the matching vest and placed it on the jacket. As he walked over to the cupboard he opened the knot of his black tie but didn't bother to take it off completely. A long moment his eyes stared blindly in his liquor cabinet without seeing anything. All he wanted was to go and buy a bottle of cana and drown any feeling in it but he knew that wasn't an option. Not now, not ever. Not anymore. So he chose a bottle of old Scotch and a suitable glass. His hands were as steady as ever as he poured two fingers of the clear amber liquid. The alcohol burned in his throat and settled as a warming fire in his stomach.

Looking around idly he sauntered towards the grand piano and stared down at the black and white keys. Lost in thought he put one finger on the shining old ivory. When the piano had been made no one had spared a though for dying out elephants or the destruction of rainforest. He pressed the key and listened to the sound, fading away into nothing.

As if on their own accord the fingers of his left hand started playing a simple phrase. The notes increased and faded, varied the theme, changed and came back to the beginning.

He stood some time and allowed himself to get lost in the following silence. Finally he pulled the piano stool back, set the glass onto the closed lid and sat. His fingers wandered playfully over the keys. A note here, one there, together and against each other in the dialog of left and right hand. The closed lid muffled the full tone of the instrument, sometimes down to the brink of dissonance. How fitting.

Fragments of pieces of music intertwined, melted into each other. Love Is Blue, Greensleeves, Biscaya, A Little Nights Music. It didn't matter. He didn't think about it. He just played. Although he was far from being a musical genius time and practice had made him a decent player with a wide repertoire. He switched to Cats - Moonlight. Normally he preferred this song on the cello but he knew he wouldn't stand its melancholy sound right now. Maybe not for a long time. Taking one hand off the keys he sipped his Scotch then returned to going through the different pieces. Classical music changed to pop, jazz to musical, soul to country.

The doorbell made him stop.

He just sat there.

The unwanted visitor rang again. Then a hesitant knock.

Sighing he stood. Not even now he considered not to open, to just lock out the world out there and bury himself in his hiding place. Not really. Automatically he looked through the peephole before reaching for the handle. A second he was confused. This visitor he hadn't expected. Not after all that had happened. Not after all that had been. He hadn't even known she was in Washington. But even to feel surprise seemed too much at the moment. He was too tired for thinking. So he simply opened the door.

"What do you want?"

His voice showed nothing. No annoyance. No curiosity. Just nothing. She didn't answer at first, her calm eyes sizing him up, her face unreadable. Finally she tilted her head a tiny bit.

"Can I come in?"

He continued to look at her with a blank stare then shrugged abruptly and took a step back, swinging the door wide open as he did. Without a word he returned to the piano and sat down again.

He heard her enter after a moment and close the door. Her light footsteps were lost in the floating notes as he resumed his restless playing. She came up to his back and stood behind his right side. Her presence overwhelming as if leaning against his arm but she didn't touch him. He took his glass again and wetted his lips. He lifted it in a tiny gesture before setting it back down.

"Help yourself." Then he added: "There should be some tonic water too."

He hadn't meant to be impolite. Not even now. Not even after all that hadn't been.

He continued to play and after a second he more felt than saw that she went over and shuffled bottles then returned to his side. He could see her hand and the glass in it out of the corner of his eye when he turned his head a bit reaching for the higher keys. Every now and then she lifted it out of his sight and took a sip. After a long time she changed the glass to her other hand and reached out past his shoulder. Against his will his gaze followed her movement. Her fingers touched the smooth picture frame holding the photograph of his mother.

His casual playing stopped.

The silence was deep and heavy. Without any motion, any life. Her finger slowly traced the edge of the frame.

"She sure was a remarkable woman. I'll give her that."

The ghost of a smile touched his lips despite the circumstances. Wryly amused at the strange atmosphere of rivalry and distrust between these two headstrong, so terribly independent women who had been the most important in his life. Both equally unable and unwilling to understand the other one and at the same time in a strange way so much alike, more than they had ever realized.

"She was," he confirmed quietly, speaking more to himself. "She was..."

But he couldn't find the words to express what he was feeling. To explain what she had meant to him because she had known him better than anybody else. Even better than that woman standing behind him who had once claimed to love him. Words were not enough.

_Mother. Confidante. Lifeline. Listening quietly without asking for more than he was ready to give - and that had been little enough most of the time - had had to be little enough to keep her safe. Trusting him to do the right thing, supporting his decisions no matter what and not afraid to put his head straight with nothing more than a pointed look whenever necessary. Always knowing what to tell him to make things better although she too had had the infallible talent of any parent to say the wrong thing at the worst time in front of his few friends or classmates when he was young. Driving him crazy with her strict bedtime rules in his childhood; later still driving him crazy with her habit of having the last word or straightening his tie in public. Fiercely determined to protect him at any cost. Accepting what he was, how he was; that he was human under his armor of self-possession and sarcasm, making human mistakes and struggling with the consequences afterwards. Offering silent comfort even if he tried to push her away. A constant in the terrible, lonely, cruel, cold world he had chosen to live in._

No. Words were not enough for that.

After endless minutes of silence she finally withdrew her hand. It ended up resting on his shoulder. A soft pressure was in the touch of these slender fingers. Comforting. Soothing. Without demanding or expecting anything.

A shiver ran through his body. Still staring at the portrait he swallowed hard, fighting against the sudden lump in his throat. He tried desperately to keep control, to once more rein in the pain he had held so carefully at bay but now so near and hard and consuming, his breathing suddenly ragged and short. Her hand on his trembling shoulder seemed to burn right through the thin cloth of his shirt, right into his skin and with rising panic he felt tears welling up in his eyes. And then ... just as he thought he couldn't bear it any longer, as he thought he'd do what he had refused to do all day long, what he had feared most ... she took her hand away. Thank God, she took her hand away.

Slowly he drew in a shuddering breath. Looking down at the keys he forced his numb fingers to move, searching consolation and peace the only way he allowed himself. The only way he could allow himself without destroying his very being or losing the only shield that kept him safe from the world ... from the things he had seen, from the things he had done.

And she understood. He still couldn't see her, didn't wanted to ... but he knew somehow she understood.

Dusk sneaked almost unnoticed into the silent apartment. Silent except for the dancing notes still flowing from his restless fingers. The fragments of melodies were repeating themselves now but none of them cared. It wasn't until the deep shadows started blurring the edges of the picture that he slowly took his hands off the black and white keys.

A long, long time they were silent. A complete silence this time, any sounds from outside intruders in their small enclosed world.

"Thank you, Sarah."

It wasn't more than a whisper. He still didn't move, didn't look back. Her hand once more brushed against his arm. He could smell her perfume - light and subtle - just as he had done the entire time. Then she turned away.

He listened to her footsteps walking toward the table, to the soft knock as she put her glass down. To the nearly imperceptible rustling of her clothes as she crossed the room on her way to the door. He heard the small sound as she opened it and knew that she had paused in the doorway and was looking back at him. For a second he was afraid she would say something, anything. Was almost sure she would. But instead she quietly closed the door from outside.

Webb was alone, sitting motionless in the dark silence. A strange feeling of peace, of comfort in his heart, easing at least a tiny bit of his endless grief.

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The End

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Author's note: And I think it would be sad if it wasn't in Mac's character to do something like that. Just my humble opinion.


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